2010+Short+Stories

Type in the content of your page here.Paste your fiction submissions here. Be sure to include the Title, Your Name, and the Body of the Piece. Leave space between each submission please.  The Turning Point By Adrienne Stenholm

Meredith sat on the shaded park bench and stared. Leaves rustled playfully in the breeze, and from a hundred yards away on the playground the laughter and screams of the children swinging and running and spinning hovered in the air around her. But Meredith didn’t notice any of that.

In her perfectly smooth black pumps, black pencil skirt with matching jacket, crisp white Oxford shirt, and matching-set gold jewelry, Meredith looked like a woman who knew what she was doing and would have no qualms taking down anyone or anything that stood in her way. Today, though, an expression of startling blankness replaced her usual mask of self-assurance.

After several more minutes she shook herself out of her trance-like state and took notice once again of the scene taking place around her. With a glance at her watch, she sighed and rose from the park bench to stride toward her shiny black four-door BMW in the parking lot. The wind continued to rearrange her coiffed brown hair, but for once she didn’t care. Pressing the unlock button on her keychain and opening the door, she gave a cursory glance to make sure her handbag was still on the floor of the passenger side, slid inside, and closed the door. “New car” smell engulfed her, and she breathed deeply. Meredith had worked hard to get to where she was and took pride in how much she had accomplished on her own. But what did she have to show for it?

The cell phone in her bag trilled, and Meredith considered answering it before she started back. As the phone rang, though, she decided to let it go to voice mail. It was probably the bank, anyway. “They can wait until Monday,” she said aloud to herself. “I told them I had a doctor’s appointment, but I didn’t say I’d be back today.” With that, all thoughts of Chase Bank, where she worked as a case manager, slid to the back of her mind.

She started the car, calmed by the low hum, and prepared to slide into traffic. Waiting for the school bus full of some high school track team to pass, the noise from within escaping through the open windows, she thought with some surprising regret about her school days, a simpler time in her life.

Meredith was not one to wallow in self pity, but she didn’t have anyone to whine to. She figured she had an excuse since she had talked herself into believing that the doctor would deliver the same news as always. The lumps were due to overactive glands or too much caffeine. She’d lay off the coffee and tea and call it good. So when she sat across from the kindly middle-aged doctor and heard the word “cancer” come out of her mouth, life as she knew it stopped. “You have options,” the doctor had said. “Please let me know if you have any questions, but we do need to take action before too long. In fact, I’d like to start making appointments for the next couple of weeks before too much time goes by.”

“Before too much time goes by” meant she’d surely have to have a mastectomy. Just the thought of that procedure accelerated her heart rate and made a fine sweat break out on her forehead. Meredith wasn’t ready for that, and she certainly wasn’t ready to face anyone. She turned the car toward her meticulously kept town house on the outskirts of Wichita where she knew she’d be able to put things in perspective over a glass (or six) of wine on the covered back patio, watching the ducks play in the lake behind her complex.

The passing school bus returned to her thoughts. High school was a much happier, care-free time of her life. She still had her parents and a group of close friends. Who cared if she didn’t have any money? After losing her parents to a car accident in college, her mindset had changed, and she threw all her energies into her ambition “to make something of herself,” thus successfully alienating all her friends. She didn’t even know where they lived or if they were married and had families. Twenty years later she realized that since the time of school buses, her money and success had brought her an upscale town house filled with trendy furniture (only the best would do) and a few co-workers she would occasionally fraternize with outside of work but no true friendships or companionship of any kind. An intense feeling of loneliness engulfed her and tightened her chest.

Pulling into her garage, she turned off the car and took a deep breath. She walked into the kitchen, dropping her purse on the counter and kicking her shoes off by the door. Ordinarily she would have put everything neatly in its place, but today it didn’t seem to matter so much anymore.

Meredith shrugged out of her jacket and let it join her purse before she grabbed the bottle of Merlot and a corkscrew from the wine cabinet and headed to her patio. She only gave a brief glimpse toward the glasses as she passed, carrying the bottle by the neck to her favorite patio lounge chair. Who needs glasses?

Settling down and taking a drink from the bottle, she laid her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes. It wasn’t too late. Yes, this was a serious situation for her, but her prognosis wasn’t entirely bleak. Treatments could help. She would probably lose her hair and be sicker than a dog for stretches at a time, but people survived chemo. And if the drugs didn’t work, she’d go for the surgery. She just knew she wasn’t ready to die.

Meredith took another drink from the bottle. A plan started to formulate in her mind as she took in the pristine view from her back patio. Rising and going back into the house, she took one last drink and stuffed the cork into the opening of the bottle as far as she could. She put the wine away and reached for the phone on the kitchen counter, punching in the numbers from the business card tacked to the message board on the wall. “I’ll just handle this now,” she said as she brought the phone to her ear. ”May I please speak to Dr. Lawrence? This is Meredith Walters…Thank you… Hello, Dr. Lawrence. Yes, I’ve made my decision. Let’s go ahead and schedule treatments for next week and go from there…Okay…Yes, see you then.”

She ended the call and reached for her purse and her cell phone within. Browsing through the numbers in her phone’s memory, she selected one and hit “send”. “Hi, Carla, it’s me, Meredith…Oh, I’m fine. How are you?...Great! Would you like to meet me for dinner tonight? My treat?...Yes, it has been a while, but we don’t really get to talk at work, and we’ve both been really busy lately. I just wanted to catch up a little bit, maybe unwind…” A smile crossed her face. “Really? That’s fine. How about in an hour at Tassani’s?...Okay, see you there.” She turned off the phone and replaced it in her purse, then headed back to her room to change clothes.

Meredith knew she could never recapture her school bus days, but she could take steps to let people in and actually live her life before it was too late. She knew that would make her parents prouder than raking in piles of money yet being totally alone.

With a smile, she grabbed her purse and headed out to her garage, shutting the door behind her.

1 Miles to E By Patrick Kennedy

Perhaps it happened due to my stubborn nature, perhaps because I desired a further taste of paradise before the day commenced, or perhaps it occurred due to an unquenchable craving to live life on the edge with no regard for my own wellbeing. Regardless, when first I noticed the fuel light glaring me in the face, I ignored it entirely and went about my business. The dash alerted me that the car could continue another seven miles before I reached empty. Suspicious of an on-board computer’s capability to judge the accuracy of such matters, I ignored the caution and continued in my journey. Under those circumstances, it came as no surprise to me that when I started the car again, sometime around noon, the dash frantically relayed that now the best I could manage was five miles before the dreaded E level. With no sense of danger or urgency, I exited the parking lot and endeavored on the four-mile journey to Dillon’s. Normally, I would not be so religious about where I purchase gasoline, yet it was religion that compelled me to habitually journey to Dillon’s for this expense. You see, my priest informed us during a sermon that if we used our highly advertised Scrip Cards at Dillon’s just to purchase groceries and gasoline, the church could earn upwards of two- hundred thousand dollars during the fiscal year. With that in mind, I drove towards the store believing that divine intervention would keep the car running if the gasoline could not. Still, as the display clicked down from five to four, I began to wonder if I had the provisions for such a risky venture. I was still minutes away from the store and calculated that I had three intersections with lights and one set of train tracks to cross. So as I sped down the road, I hovered around the forty-five mark while driving through the forty-mile-per-hour zone. But when the counter clicked down yet again, I really began to worry since I was not half way through my trip but had apparently burned up close to fifty per cent of my fuel. To compensate, I pulled my foot off the gas and coasted for a good mile and a half. To judge whether I constituted a road hazard or not, I aligned myself with a grey Honda accord driving slightly in front me in the adjacent lane. If the car progressed to the point that it was greater than one car-length ahead of me, I pressed the gas for a duration of roughly two seconds to catch my pace car and then began coasting again. The counter clicked down yet again as I came to a red light. It was the first that stopped me as I managed to run a yellow light at the first. In all honesty, it was a yellow light, and I harbor no remorse in running it. However, at this light I became expressly concerned that across from me sat a car in the left turn-lane of the road guaranteeing the turn light and that the green arrow would make an appearance. It is a curious thing – the green arrow at a stop light – for it is always met with mixed emotions. For the motorist benefiting from the arrow’s place of authority, the green arrow is brightened salvation, shining to stick it to all the poor saps who must wait until the turner has concluded his business. For those poor saps who must wait, the green arrow stands as a reminder that your life is slowly wasting away while your car only adds to the list of costs by burning its precious cargo. At that time, I also became privy to a need to visit a restroom, which occurred suddenly and without provocation. Given my proximity to my home, I could drive there easily and avoid the tyranny of the green arrow, but that did not guarantee that the car would have enough left to make it to the store. It may be sad to admit, but at that point, as a man, I faced a dilemma. Let me restate that – as a single man I faced a dilemma. It is easy for a single man living with two college roommates to consider the options knowing that whatever heckling his comrades hounded him with could be countered by stories of their own debauchery. The married man, not in a position to hound his wife out of fear retaliation, instead becomes the butt of the joke for years to come. Because of that the married man would risk life and kidney so long as it assured that he would not incur the wrath of his spouse when he would have to explain that he drove home to use the bathroom and subsequently let the car run out of gas. Before I could come to a consensus, the light changed to green and out of instinct, I hit the gas and sped towards the Dillon’s. Sometimes it’s best not to actually decide something, and I had to hope desperately that would be the case in this instance. Continuing down the road, I began to ponder the embarrassment of the car sputtering out of gas and dying on the side of the road. I had more than an hour before I needed to return, surely that would be enough time to call my roommate, wake him since it was only noon and it was summer time, and have him meet me on the side of the road with a gas can while I was fighting the urge to use the lavatories. Then I had another situation to consider – would it be even more embarrassing to have to walk to a Goodwill store and ask to use their phone to call my roommate, wake him since it was only noon on a summer day, and have him meet me on the side of the road with a gas can while I was fighting the urge to use the lavatories? I decided that it would be drastically more embarrassing, and then wondered why I had to consider going to Goodwill at all. That’s when it hit me – I left my phone back on campus because I knew I would be returning, and since my newly purchased basketball shorts lacked pockets I decided not to bring it with me. The display was at two now, and I became resolved not to let this car die on the road so I wouldn’t have to walk to the Goodwill, use their phone, call my roommate, wake him since it was only noon on a summer’s day, and have him meet me with a gas can on the side of the road while fighting the urge to use the lavatories. I’m not entirely certain why the fact that it was a Goodwill store was feeding my resolve – I shop at Goodwill every now and then – but nevertheless I was determined. As my eyes darted back and forth between the dash and the road, a rather unusual and untimely thought crossed my mind. The dash currently read: 2 MILES TO E, and I wondered if the programmers of the computer had the grammatical foresight to have the counter change from 2 MILES to 1 MILE when the tense dropped from plural to singular. I understand that the idea is to refill the tank before the driver ever gets to that point, but nevertheless, that conversation should have occurred somewhere along the way. Now only a mile or so away from the Dillon’s, I found myself in the unfortunate circumstance of driving behind a car that actually went below the posted speed limit. Now going thirty-seven in a forty may not seem so egregious at first glance, but no one goes under the speed limit these days as most people follow the one-hundred-and-ten- percent rule as all good drivers should. With that in mind, the speed limit actually becomes forty-four creating a disparity of seven miles per hour. And when you think about it, seven is closer to ten than it is to five and there’s no point splitting hairs at this juncture, so this driver is going ten miles under the speed limit while I’m attempting to make it to Dillon’s before the car dies. I decided then and there that if the car actually died, it would be all license plate number 111 FAE’s fault. As the final straw, the counter clicked down: 1 MILES TO E. It was ridiculous. There I was driving down a road that I then realized had no more than two feet past the white line before it dropped into a ditch, driving a car that had to have less than a gallon of gasoline in the tank, mere seconds away from having to walk to the Goodwill to use their phone to call my roommate to wake him since it was only noon on a summer day to come meet me along the side of the side with a gas can because of this person driving ridiculously below the speed limit while I needed to find the restroom or find a new pair of shorts, and I couldn’t deal with the fact that my dashboard currently read 1 MILES TO E because some lame brain at the Ford company ignored the most basic rules of grammar. Just before I lost my eyesight to blinding rage, I managed to make out the outline of the Dillon’s store and saw the gas station glimmering like an oasis in the noonday sun. I turned into the parking lot relieved that I had survived my trek to see that the station appeared to be full. I scanned it quickly as the car began to sputter and jerked forward to find that only one stall remained. Taking no chances I sped into the stall just as the engine died. Happily, I stepped out of the car wallet in hand only to be struck by a wave of grief as I remembered that the gas cap was on the other side.

Chapter One: A Boy’s Terabithia By Tim Garrels It was a blistering 95 degrees in the small Missouri town of 2,000. The hum of air conditioners could be heard in the gentle, humid breeze as the various flies and mosquitoes zinged through the bulky air. In the midst of the heat, Matt, Dan, and John, respectively aged 8, 10, and 11 years old, biked downhill from their old Victorian home, towards Fayette Elementary School, at a quickening pace. The distance from their house to the school measured about three quarters of a mile and could have easily have been reached within five minutes time. But as they rode on and passed house after house and summer lilies, petunias, and freshly mown grass, the boys took a detour at the local creek – an area declared off limits by parents.

Summer had arrived and school was no longer in session, but the remains of the spring rains still lingered. The creek waters rushed quickly under the short bridge and then parted equally as fast as it went around a small sandbar and then into the beyond. The sandbar exhibited extraordinary powers in the eyes of most everyone. In the eyes of adults, it was a dark, foreboding place offering nothing but danger, but in the eyes of children, it was in fact an exotic island where first kisses took place, secret pacts were made, and after-school slug fests occurred. It was a Terabithia – a land of imagination.

Not cycling for more than five minutes, the boys arrived at the creek. The nearby sign warning of danger, drowning, and definitely no swimming could just as well have been written in an unrecognizable foreign language. However, no well-respecting child would be concerned about it, but it did manage to ward off the adults. Perhaps this is why the island was so special; it was adult free.

The three boys paid no attention to the nearby sign warning of possible danger, and neither did they pay attention to the fading flashbacks of the prior conversation with their mother.

//“Boys, don’t stop at the creek! You know what I think of that place. All the pollution! All the filth! People who swim in there are prone to catch all kinds of diseases, and I don’t want you to be one of them. That creek is absolutely off-limits.”//

//“Yes mom,” all three said in an obedient, unified tone.//

//“Now, go outside and play.”//

//“Yes, mom,” the sarcasm and giggles beginning to rise out of their adolescent minds.//

//“I mean it. That place is a hospital visit waiting to happen.”//

//“Yes, mom.”//

//A giggle erupted.//

//“Boys!” The word erupted like lava cracking the crater of a dormant volcano.//

//“We know. See ya! We’ll be back before supper!” Quickly, before their mom could say anything else, the boys had departed for what they knew was off-limits – the creek!//

Without further thought to their mother’s warning, the boys quickly jumped into the rushing creek water wearing only their jean cut-offs. Summer was here, and they had gone native. Civilization and its official warnings could wait until fall.

“Ahhh. This feels great!” John said with a youthful glee.

“Yeah!” Dan chimed in.

“Hey look, I found a crawdad. I wonder what it would taste like if we ate it?” Matt said distractedly. His attention now more focused on the vulnerable crustacean in his hands than on the conversation occurring around him.

“Yeah! Let’s try it. It’ll be like //The Little Mermaid// except we will be the cooks, and the crawdad will be Sebastian.” John said.

“Great idea!” Dan said.

“Now, let’s find something to cook it in.” John said.

Dan and John searched methodically through the garbage which lay along the shoreline of the creek. Not wanting to settle for any piece of trash, the boys sifted through vast treasures of plastic bottles, old aluminum pie plates, and the occasional beer can left by high school partiers.

As the boys continued their search, Matt continued his admiration of what he considered a royal experience.

“Do you know Sebastian?” Matt said to the crawdad.

No response.

“I bet you do. I bet you know Ariel, Eric and King Triton. Maybe you even know Ursula, the sea-witch!” The enthusiasm continued to build within in Matt as his conversation with the crawdad continued.

“My sister tells me //The Little Mermaid// is a girl’s movie, but I asked my mom. She said it’s a movie for everyone. What do you think, Sebastian? Is it ok if I call you Sebastian.” Matt continued.

Dan interrupted the conversation between Matt and ‘Sebastian,’ “Hey, I found a can over here. Let’s put it in here!” Dan said.

The boys quickly ran to regroup on the shore of the sandbar. Still holding the crawdad, Matt stared at Dan’s latest treasure – a rusting Sherman Williams paint can. Without much thought, John directed Dan to put some water into the can (which miraculously still held water) and set the can on top of some driftwood which had been piled on the sandbar after the last rain.

John, a secret pyromaniac, took out some matches he always carried around for occasions, such as these, and started the fire which would boil the water. Matt quickly set Sebastian into the water. All three peered intently with eyes of eagles into the mysterious fathoms of their crawdad cocktail.

As the fire grew in intensity and the water grew in temperature, the sounds of popping, hissing and even squealing erupted from the can as the boys observed the crawdad being boiled alive.

“Wow! Did you see that?” John said.

“Yeah! Its eyes just popped off!” Dan said.

“Let me see. Let me see” Matt, the youngest one, said. John and Dan quickly moved over to let their youngest brother into sight.

Rising up from the can was a current of steam and a tumultuous cascade of bubbles. Floating near the surface and swishing in the boiling water were the remains of the once vibrant, red crawdad. Its eyes lay near it – now separated from its body – and its legs no longer held any form or structure. The crawdad was dead.

After a few minutes, the boys removed the can of water from the fire with a pair of sticks, and the contents of the can spilled out revealing the bright red crustacean. Putting out the fire, the boys poked the crawdad to ensure that it was indeed dead, and then they did what they had set out to do.

“Ok, now. Give me your pocketknife Dan. I’m going to open this thing up, and we are going to eat it.”John said with air of authority known only to older siblings.

“Here you go. Make sure we all get a piece. I don’t want you hogging all of it like you always do.” Dan said.

“Shut-up, Dan. I do what I have to do. I am the leader, and the leader…” John said.

“You’re not the leader of me!” Dan said.

“Both of you stop it! Make peace!” Matt said in a well-intentioned tone.

“We can all have some. Now, quit fighting and let’s get on with it. I don’t want Sebastian to have died in vain.” Matt said.

“Fine.” John and Dan said with resignation at having been corrected by their youngest sibling.

“Now, where were we?” John said.

“We were going to eat Sebastian.” Matt reminded them.

“Oh yea. Now, not only are we going to eat Sebastian, we are going to use the magic from his meat as the foundation for our secret – boy’s only – society. From this day on, we will be known as members of the Crustacean gang!” John said in a tone that would rival Mel Gibson in //Braveheart//.

“Awesome!” Mat and Dan said.

The conversation continued.

“After we eat this crawdad we are going to be invincible, and no one will be able to stop us. We will be immune from diseases. We will be able to jump off bridges without getting hurt. We will be able to enter our hide-out at the creek without being seen! We will be unstoppable!

“But those who take this pledge and eat this crawdad must agree to reveal our secrets to Mom, Dad or any other parent! It must be our secret! The Creek must be ours!” John said in a roaring voice.

“I’m in.” Dan said.

“So am I.” Matt said.

“Then, it’s done. Let the Crustacean gang celebrate its first day of existence on today, June 1, 1987!” John said.

With that the boys consumed the flesh of the crawdad. Sebastian ceased to exist, and a secret society was formed in the middle of a mysterious sandbar, during the hottest hour of the day, on the first day of summer.

Chapter Two: The Beginning of War

Chapter Three: Retreat

The Second Best Christmas Pageant Ever By Sandra Frazer Foster

Oh, how I could relate to the mother who gained directorship of the church Christmas pageant by default in Barbara Robinson’s "//The Best Christmas Pageant Ever//." In fact, so well could I relate, I decided to adapt that very story about a group of misfit kids invited to church with the promise of donuts, who eventually bully their way into taking the main roles in the church’s Christmas pageant.

I was a second-year middle school teacher and a mother of three – soon to be four. I taught Sunday school but really had no desire to direct the church Christmas pageant. Unfortunately, I had yet to learn the art of saying “No” and meaning it. No one else stepped up, and so here I was, eight months pregnant, organizing our first practice.

My adapted version of this familiar Christmas story was purposefully written with a narrator and few actual lines for the kids to memorize. With most of my young actors' sporadic attendance, I knew the struggle I faced in scheduling productive practices. And, almost like the bullying Herdman kids form the original book, I coerced a high school student into the role of narrator.

Beginning practices were scheduled for Wednesday evenings and Sundays during the Sunday school hour for the month of November. Two full weeks later, the cast was assigned and enough people in attendance to finally read through the entire play. Just two weeks from delivering a newborn, the stress mounted. At the last November practice, I handed out a modified practice schedule: Wednesday evenings, Sunday mornings, and now Sunday nights. I sent a note home begging the parents to make sure their sons and daughters attended each practice.

I delivered my fourth child, a son, December 1, the first scheduled Sunday night practice, so I had no idea how many parents actually drove through the snow to ensure their sons and daughters were at the church while I lay in the hospital bed holding the newest addition to my family. The following Wednesday, I showed up for practice exhausted and just a wee bit short-tempered. I explained that only two weeks remained before we would be putting this production on for the congregation.

“What’s the congregation?” asked one young actor. Oh, what a fitting story for this group of children to perform, I thought. In the original story, the misfit children who took over the main parts of the pageant had never been inside a church, had not heard of Jesus or Mary, or any other reference to religion that my regular attendees had portrayed in pageants over the past few years. At the end of practice, I reminded Abby for perhaps the fortieth time to bring her decorative bags that her mother had promised to make to represent the gold, frankincense and myrrh the three wise men would carry.

Sunday morning of pageant day arrived, and still, no bags. Groaning with frustration at the irresponsible parent who had promised to help with this small task, I realized if I wanted bags, I’d need to make them myself before tonight’s performance. Hmph! But that afternoon, Abby called to say she had the bags and they were already in the car so she wouldn’t forget. Very few costumes or props were needed for this production. The cradle, the large star, and the robes and halos would take little time to turn this misfit group of regular church youth and their non-attending friends into the roles they represented.

That evening, forty-five minutes before start time, we gathered in a room in the education wing as far away from the sanctuary as we could so our excited babbling would not detract from the holy-child-anticipation of the gathering congregants. I began to relax and think, “This is going to go okay, and in 45 minutes, it will all be over.” Then "Mary" came up to me with the news that she had left our “baby Jesus” doll at home after Sunday school.

Our church nursery had numerous dolls, mostly Barbies with missing arms or chopped hair, none of which would serve as Baby Jesus. Frantically, I glanced around the room; my gaze rested on my newborn peacefully sleeping in the car seat in the corner of the nursery. In a panic-forced moment of insanity, I decided my newborn would have to become the star of the pageant. He had been fed, was dry, and would surely sleep. At the appointed hour, we marched down the steps, filing into the sanctuary at the signal of the narrator.

The performance proceeded amazingly well, given the disorganization of our earlier dress rehearsal. The congregation laughed in all the appropriate places, the students quietly cued each other when necessary, and the story of the Herdmans who took over the pageant knowing absolutely nothing about church or Jesus was clearly portrayed by my young actors.

When the narrator gave the cue for the three wise men to enter from the back of the sanctuary, I breathed a sigh of relief knowing that this scene would conclude our pageant. But from the back of the church I heard some minor scuffling and the first king stumbled through the entryway into the center aisle as if being shoved from behind. Standing upright and regaining control, he stopped abruptly when he realized all eyes in the sanctuary were on him.

From the front pew, I suddenly realized his fear. We had never practiced in front of an audience, and this particular student was one of our friends-of-a-member, occasional-Sunday-school -only attendees who had never been inside the sanctuary with people in the pews. I leaned toward the aisle and beckoned him forward, worried that we might never re-enact the full manger scene if our wise men didn’t have enough nerve to put one foot in front of the other. Finally he moved. As practiced, precisely four steps behind followed the second wise man. Wise man number three counted four paces and followed suit. All three carried their beautiful gifts for the newborn king.

As they slowly marched toward the front, I heard snickers and muffled giggles from the congregation. Not until they reached the front pew did I fully understand these mirthful moments. Their very elegant purple velvet bags had once held Crown Royal whiskey, clearly labeled on the side of each one.

I silently groaned, anticipating a later rebuke from the minister and more certainly, from one of our elderly members who seemed to view all youth activities with a critical eye. Then our baby Jesus began to squirm and emitted a tiny squeak as a prequel to his normal wake-up wail.

“Not yet!” I thought. But immediately “Mary” picked him up and gently cradled him in her arms, as any mother would do, soothing him into sleep again. And, like the ending of the story upon which we based our play, a look of sheer wonder passed over her face as the "angel of the Lord" threw her hands into the air and yelled loudly, “Hey! Unto you a child is born!”

I received no criticism, no rebukes, but rather laughter and praise for the fresh view of the traditional Christmas pageant. The following year when the time arose, I politely declined the request to direct the pageant with the excuse that baby Jesus would no longer fit in the cradle, and surely we should allow someone else to experience the Christmas pageant joy. And this time, "no" meant no.

The Suit By Patrick Kennedy

He had said to meet somewhere around nine. It was now nine forty-five. The instructions were clear, were they not? It was the biggest and grandest hotel in the city, how could it be that difficult to find? Something must be deterring his expected guest. It was silly to think there was a safe place to meet where they would not be discovered. Even in a place so seemingly out of the way as this, there were always eyes to follow and watch them. The hotel sat on the corner of Main Street, a grand marquee running up the side of the building. Inside the large double doors, the cavernous lobby stretched high into the sky. A brick wall ran up one side with balconies sticking out in the typical pattern one would see with hotel rooms. A bubbling fountain sit below them encapsulated by a marble wall. A small forest of fake plants and flowers sit adjacent to the fountain leading back to the corner of the lobby and down a hallway. Soft jazz played from a phonograph sitting in the corner of the lobby. Only a few small round tables remained in the lobby as the majority them were removed to be cleaned after the breakfast service. Bellhops and chambermaids moved to and fro throughout the lobby busy at their morning chores. Dressed in a trench coat, trousers, and button up shirt with hat in hand, he was seated near the fountain as the sound of water trickling over rock reminded him of the stream outside his childhood home. He longed dearly for those days now. Things had changed so greatly since he was a young boy catching bullfrogs in the muck, launching himself off tire swings, and running barefoot through the trees. Now, things were serious, things were dire. If he wasn’t careful, things would become deadly. As he sat pondering the comings and goings of all that been and come to be in his life, a man walked through the lobby doors. Sharply dressed in a black two-button suit, black hat, dress shoes, this man had a serious look about him. The suit was not the guest he was expecting. Taking a seat in the back corner of the lobby, the suit grabbed a newspaper left by a tenant and began to read. It would be minutes later before he noticed the suit sitting in the corner and became nervous. Indeed the suit had been following him for some time now. Sent by the people that he was running from, the suit felt the time was at hand to bring some resolution to this situation. Brushing off his paranoia, he went back to waiting for his friend. It was nine fifty-five now. Time was growing short. As he squeezed the hat in his hand, he checked his watch again. He couldn’t linger much longer, especially not with the suit in the room. Attempting to appear casual, he turned momentarily in his chair to get a better look at the suit. The suit had the paper covering his face and sat cross-legged for the time being. The jacket of the suit was unbuttoned, opened just enough to expose a leather strap resting over his shoulder. Looking carefully at the exposed area, he noticed the metal glint of something by the suit’s chest. It served as further proof that these people didn’t mess around. What happened in Dodge was proof enough of that. Those poor souls hadn’t even been willing to talk to the police. They were just pulled over on a broken tail light, and things got misconstrued from that point on. Being witness to their ensuing slaughter scared him enough to realize he needed to get out of the game, but how could he dare walk straight into a police station and expect to walk away? Beginning to feel his nerves go, he had to steady his hand so as to appear inconspicuous. He almost jumped from his chair when he heard a flurry of voices come his direction. The hotel crowd was exiting the premises for the day. A new and refreshed world for them just beyond the doors, and business awaiting them, but it was clear that his business lie within these walls for today and maybe for what remained of his life. Setting the hat on the table, he eased back into his chair. Ten-o-three. How much longer could he possibly wait? He would need a back-up plan. As he thought, his eyes darted back towards the suit. The corner of the paper folded inwards, giving him a clear look at the suit’s face. The suit was looking straight at him, most likely his attention drawn to the sound of his hat hitting the table. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed someone running into the lobby with a frantic look about him. His friend had arrived. Seeing his friend immediately calmed his nerves. His mouth dropped and he breathed deeply as though he had been submerged in water for the past hour. When his friend took a seat next to him, he couldn’t keep his voice from trembling. “For crying out loud, where have you been?” he asked. “I was getting ready to leave.” “I’m sorry,” his friend replied. “I thought I was being followed.” The idea of being followed made him look back at the suit in the corner of the room. The suit suddenly had a smile on his face as he folded the paper and stood up. As the suit sauntered slowly across the lobby to the check-in desk, he turned back to his friend. “What happened?” “I was on my way here when I noticed a man behind me wearing a white suit…” The white suit brought some memories back for him too. The white suit had been stalking around the hotel, asking questions, but never catching him off guard. He even noticed the white suit when he was out and about, trying to plan for his exodus. “Anyway,” his friend continued, “I wasn’t sure if the man in the white suit was following me or not, so I ducked into a diner and ordered some breakfast. Sure enough, he followed me in there. “I tried to wait him out, see if he’d give up after a few minutes, but he didn’t. However long I was planning to drag this out, he was going to stay with me stride for stride. “Finally, I decided I had to sneak out of the diner somehow. I went to the bathroom to clear my head and come up with a plan. While I was in there, I noticed a broken window that was just big enough for me to sneak through. “Once I was outside, I ran all the way here with no sight of the white suit.” Hearing that things may be on the way up, the terror began to leave his body. His hand steadied again, and suddenly he could see the light at the end of the tunnel. They just need to rush towards it. “Well, I’m glad to see you’re alright. Is everything in order?” “Yeah, just let me splash some water on my face before we go.” His friend started to stand up, but he grabbed his friend’s hand. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea,” he remarked. “I think that man in the black suit over there is working with the man in white.” His friend looked over at the registration table. The suit was having a word with the hotel manager. “I won’t be long,” his friend vowed, “I promise.” “Okay.” “Don’t worry, I’m armed.” Hastily, his friend ran to the bathroom. He took a second to watch his friend and make sure nothing happened to him. But when he turned his attention to the counter again, the suit was gone. Frantically, he looked around the lobby, but he couldn’t see him anymore. As his pulse quickened and his eyes shot wide, he realized the entire lobby had emptied. He ran to the counter and dinged the bell mercilessly. No one came to answer his call for help. Seconds later, he heard the bang. It came from across the lobby. Walking across the lobby, he cautiously approached the bathroom door. Part of him wanted to run, but he had nowhere to run. Slowly opening it, he saw his friend laying on the floor with a giant red blot in his back. Above him stood the suit wiping off some blood spatters from the gun. The suit looked up and saw him standing in the doorway. With a smile on his face, the suit raised the gun, cocked it, and pulled the trigger. Hours later, a hoard of policemen filled the lobby. The detective on the scene barked out instructions. “Dust the bathroom for prints, I want every each of it covered. Get me everything you can on the first victim, the one in the bathroom. We already know who we’re dealing with here, so time is of the essence.” “Detective, I found the manager for you.” “Excellent work.” Chewing on a cigar, the detective walked across the lobby to the counter. With a small notepad in hand, he scribbled down a few notes while he waited. The hotel manager was led out of the back room by two cops. He had a frightened look on his face. “Alright, sir, why don’t you tell me about these three gentlemen that were in your lobby this morning.” “We were awfully busy today, detective. It would be very difficult to remember any three in particular.” “Not likely,” the detective replied pulling the cigar from his mouth. “If you were busy, then I’d have a room full of witnesses to interview. That, however, is not the case so you must know the three men I’m talked about.” The manager attempted to defend himself but was too flustered. “I...uh.” Fed up, the detective walked away. “Take him downtown boys. Maybe a little time in a cell will freshen up his memory.” As the detective walked around the lobby, stopping at the table the suit sat in hours prior, he attempted to make sense of the situation. “What did this guy do to make everyone go quiet?” he asked out loud. “Probably threatened their lives,” a voice said from behind him. The detective turned around to see a man dressed in a white suit. “Thought you were undercover,” the detective said. “I was,” the white suit replied. “I was supposed to bring the victim in and put him under witness protection. I followed him all the way from California. He gave me the slip so many times; I started tailing his friend. I thought I’d be able to make contact with him today, but his friend gave me the slip at a diner down the street.” “That’s unfortunate for them,” the detective said. Since they had little else to go on, the police did their usual reconnaissance taking photos, dusting for prints, interviewing staff, and leaving business cards. They understood however that they would most likely make no headway on the case. The man in the black suit had come, made his mark, and left as though he had never arrived.

The Story of a Heel AS Pameticky

Robinella McIntyre, Robi to her friends, smoothed the lipstick, Hydra Lustre Pink Parfait by Estee Lauder, across her mouth. She took her time, careful that the color did not bleed into the fine lines. Her husband assured her there were no lines around her mouth, but he also thought her hair was still naturally this shade of blonde. She shrugged her shoulders philosophically. At 52, things weren’t quite where she thought they should be. Thank God for Spanks. Checking her watch, a birthday present from her son, Philip, Robi exited the bathroom. The fifteen minute recess the judge had called was nearly over. She would need to hurry to her seat before the court was called to order. In the hallway, Robi’s heel snagged for a moment on the blue carpet. Most people had the idea that courts were in old buildings with polished wood paneling and oak benches. But the Shikaskee Municipality of Oklahoma located its central offices in a very commercial high rise of thirty floors, ten of which housed various courtrooms. The walls were beige, not paneled. And the carpet was cheap, she thought. While she had never understood the cause, she realized that the atmosphere changed intensely once she entered the courtroom. Entering the space silently, she felt her neck tingle at the hushed tones inside. She squelched the urge to genuflect. Although still on break, the people seated patiently before the docket line like wedding guests spoke in hushed whispers. To the left of the Judge’s platform was her stenographer station. As a 20-year veteran court recorder, Robi felt she had seen the best and worst humanity had to offer. When her son, Philip, had started middle school, she decided it was time to go back to work. Traffic court with Judge Wilson had given her a sense of humor, but she had also learned to stay below the speed limit. When Old Wilson had retired, she took a new position with Judge Abrams. She was now past her ninth year in criminal court and some of the cases she heard had her twisting and turning at night. Like the current case, #1356, The State versus Thaddeus Brewer. Robi had a long-standing coffee date every Thursday afternoon with Nancy, the administrative assistant to the District Attorney. Nancy had kept Robi well informed, and while Robi was supposed to be as impartial as the judge, she couldn’t help but form her own opinions. According to Nancy, the prosecuting attorney believed this was an open-and-shut case. Allegedly, Thaddeus Brewer aided his friend and accomplice in the brutal slaying of an elderly couple during an attempted robbery. He had shoved his way past the 82-year old female victim trying to bar the door. Once inside and unable to locate the cash, the two apparently stabbed and killed their victims. Brewer’s finger prints were all over the murder weapon, a pair of shears. Other physical evidence had been acquired at the scene by local CSIs. Robi was surprised that a case like this would even make it to court. Usually the DA would wrangle a confession by dangling a plea bargain when so much evidence was accrued. But Thaddeus Brewer maintained his own innocence. So here they were, she thought bitterly, wasting taxpayer dollars. Robi reached for the sanctum gate, swinging it toward her and stepping into the judge’s realm. Placing her left food confidently forward, she snagged her right heel on the carpet. Somehow she misplaced her weight, folding her foot under her leg. She lost her balance and slammed past the defense attorney, knocking him backward. Robi should have hit the floor; she expected the impact, even braced herself. But her downward progress was halted abruptly as she hit the next person in line. After a moment, Robi realized that she had bypassed complete humiliation thanks to some good Samaritan. She was so thankful that she hadn’t hit the floor that it took her a moment to realize just who had caught her. Robinella realized several things simultaneously: 1. She really needed to check the heels on these shoes. 2. She had probably smeared her lipstick when she slammed by that attorney. 3. She was saved from an ignoble landing by none other than defendant Thaddeus Brewer, alleged murderer. Looking up into his dark eyes, Robi was startled by his proximity. She hadn’t been this close to anyone other than family in years. And that’s when she realized something else. He’s just a kid, Shasta thought, a little dazed. He’s Philip’s age. “Are you okay, ma’am?” he asked. She tried to respond: “Uh-huh.” She was ashamed of herself and flustered. He helped her back to her feet. She stumbled a little, the right heel giving her trouble. She reached down and adjusted the fit. Then she turned, quietly, returning to her station, limping a little.

Thaddeus Brewer was found guilty of two counts of murder in the 2nd degree and one count of attempted robbery. He was sentenced to twenty-five years in the Oklahoma State Penitentiary and would be able to apply for parole after serving 1/3 of his sentence. For Christmas every year, Thaddeus Brewer received a Christmas card from the McIntyre family. Inside was usually a little note from some woman named Robinella. She wished him all the best this holiday season.

Stroll for Tuesday AS Pameticky She opted for the left fork of the path that crisp early Tuesday morning. She normally chose the right that sloped down to the lakeshore and back up around to the old chapel. But she was looking for change. Why, she had put cream in her coffee for once! She thought she might want to get a little lost. She felt pretty confident that despite her tourist status, she could probably make it back to her rented cabin without much trouble. After all, she could always just turn around and come back the way she had gone.

The leaves from last fall rustled beneath her feet, although shoots of new green were spreading tendrils along the ground. The trees were unfurling their springtime leaves in splashes of color. She could smell honeysuckle and wild elderberry and damp wood. Red-tailed chickadees sang to each other as the distinct rat-ta-ta-tat-tat of a woodpecker carried the accompanying rhythm. She wished for her camera, realized that it was back in the cabin, and then debated for a moment turning around to get it. Shrugging her shoulders, she decided not to bother. She already had more pictures than she knew what to do with, and who was there to appreciate them anyway?

The grief caught her off guard, as it sometimes did. He had been gone for months now, and she felt she had more good days than bad. But every so often the tears would well up and she would forget how to walk, how to breathe. This might happen at the most inconvenient times, like while she stood in line at the post office, or worse, during Christmas dinner. When she could inhale, she politely excused herself from the table surrounded with guests. She could feel the gaze of their eldest daughter looking after her with quiet knowledge in her eyes. She would return to the table later, smile at their concerned faces: //It’s nothing. I’m fine. Don’t let me spoil this fine meal! He would want us to enjoy ourselves!// And they would return to their plates with hesitant utensils and tentative conversation. A few minutes would pass and they would feel almost normal again. But the food sat in her belly in a cold mass.

This time she was alone, //really alone,// for the first time in months. Her children, bless their hearts, had made excuse after excuse for why they needed to stay. But they had lives to get back to, and she was a grown woman and didn’t need a sitter. They had shuffled staying with her, rotating through for weeks until she’d finally screeched at her youngest to go back to college!

She felt that she deserved this vacation by herself, even if it meant there were times that she couldn’t stop the grief with distraction. There was no laundry to finish, no pot roast to prep, no ironing. Alone now, missing her husband, she sank into the feeling, the grief, didn’t try to think of something else or rush over to start some new frantic activity.

It was excruciating. For a moment, she didn’t think she could stand it, it hurt so badly. She wanted it to end, to stop. She needed to lie down right here and not get up. The pain went on and on and she could be aware of nothing else.

But somehow, even as she wanted to die, she could feel her lungs rising and falling, could feel the breaths moving in and out of her mouth. She could taste the tang of damp air moving over her tongue. There was a rhythm to her breath, a little shallow, she noticed, so she forced herself to go deeper, all the way down into her belly. The thought came that maybe if she was still breathing after all of that, she could keep walking.

She took one step forward and inhaled. And then she took another step and exhaled. And then another step and air, and one more and still breathing. Wiping at her face, she could feel the wetness of tears. She looked around, noting the massive trunks of century’s old trees, the ivy roping down and back up to high branches. Looking as high as her neck would bend, she saw a red-tailed Hawk, a sentinel watching over a nest.

It seemed like she should keep walking, keep moving and there was still pathway beneath her feet. Up ahead, two trees leaned against each other like drunks leaving a bar. Both had new shoots of green and signs of life in their upper branches despite their apparent precarious positions. And the pathway she was on led directly beneath their trunks; stepping through their arch, she came to a wooden bridge that stretched out for twenty yards. There were planks missing, and she had no idea if the thing was safe. She wasn’t ready to go back, had been in the mood for a different path and with a newfound fatalism, she stepped out across the bridge.

The bridge was sound enough. She was thankful for that because a few feet out on the bridge, the ground fell away and dropped into a narrow valley with a brook flowing nearly forty feet below. Precipitation and mist curled above the water, ghostly tendrils reaching out to climb up valley walls. The wind moved through the section of land with a sound like a just-barely heard hymn. Her husband would have loved the view.

After a few minutes of just breathing on that bridge, she moved on. On the far side, the trees quickly sheltered her again, blocking out the early morning sun. Her feet once again sank into the loam below and the rich tang of moisture was full in her nostrils. With it she seemed catch the fragrant hint of coffee and she wished for another cup. She considered turning back but with a shrug, decided to keep going.

Following the natural curve of the path ahead, her eyes focused on her feet, she was startled when the path seemed to disappear. Looking up she realized she was at the edge of a clearing; tall grass greening in the sun and a rustic cabin was in the distance. On the porch was a figure in a straw Stetson, the color distinct against the dark logs of the porch. He was sitting on a bench that seemed to blend seamlessly in with his surroundings. //He probably made that bench//, she thought.

She felt deeply chagrined. Was she on private property? Had she missed a sign somewhere? She could’ve missed a sign. She tried to decide if she should forgo her walk and turn around and go back, or if she should forge ahead and apologize to the man. But the decision was made for her when she heard his voice carry across the distance: “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” she politely responded. She decided to head toward the porch.

“Fine day, isn’t it?” he asked. He was smiling up at her, his eyes crinkling from beneath the brim of his hat.

She kept walking, putting one foot in front of the other, filling her lungs. “Yes,” she said simply.

“Offer you a cup of coffee?”

//She loved Arkansas hospitality//, she thought.

And after a moment, “Yes. Coffee would be great.”

**// Crisis: Don’t Judge //** People often speculate what they would be like in a crisis situation. We watch action and horror movies, screaming at the bra-less teenage girl to run out the door and not up the staircase to get away from the murderer. We calmly discuss what the protagonist should have done to avoid disaster, and adamantly claim that we would not be that stupid in the same situation, but I will tell you, that you don’t know until you are there.
 * // By Erin McClung //**

I found out how I react in crisis situations, and I am not pleased with the result. It was about 11:30pm on a crisp fall night. I just came home from an evening out with the girls, and was lying in bed enjoying my latest find at the Wichita Public library. My eyelids became heavy as the pages passed and I reached over to turn off my lamp when the whole house, which I shared with my sister, began to shake.

Was that an earthquake? I didn’t remember hearing anything about fault lines in Wichita. I began to get out of bed and put some decent clothes on to check and see what was going on. Suddenly, I heard my sister, Shannon screaming my name as she ran up the stairs to my room, “Erin, Erin call 9-1-1.” She slammed the door behind her with a terrified look in her eyes.

“What is going on?” I said as I dialed 9-1-1 on my cell phone. “Are you okay?”

“Some guy hit our house with his car.” Our house was the dead end of a small street.

“What? He went through the fence? Is he okay?” I said as I stumbled into my pajama shorts. I was really wishing I wore pants to bed.

“I’m trying to tell you! When I felt the crash, I stepped out of the door to see what happened. There was a car in our front yard. He hit the front porch. I walked farther out there to see if he was okay, and when I got out the door he was getting out of the car and he had a gun in his hand.”

“Holy crap!... Yes, yes hello? 469 W. Ninth Street. Someone drove through our front yard and hit our house and he has a gun.” I told the emergency operator with panic in my voice.

Shannon said, “Shit! Erin, I was so scared. I think I left the door open.” This is one of those crisis kinds of moments. If I was watching this on the big screen, I would be yelling. “Shut the door you idiot!” But it wasn’t on the big screen, it was real and there really was a guy with a gun outside our house.

“What?” I said to my normally intelligent sister.

“My sister just said she thinks she left the front door open.” I told the operator. The operator kept calm and told us to stay upstairs until the police got there. Shannon kept a baseball bat under her bed, so we quietly made our way through the closet that connected our bedrooms and I grabbed the bat as protection from the mysterious gunman. We listened intently for any sign that he had come into the house. We heard nothing. We sat there huddled like children in the cold, listening and breathing like we just ran a marathon. When we heard the sirens and saw the police lights, we slowly made our way downstairs looking very closely at the dark corners of every room. A cop was standing at the front door looking at two twenty-something, freaked out women through the screen door. Shannon had indeed left the front door wide open. The sight of the police officer made us relax a bit and we went outside to talk to him. The cop looked at the bat in my hand and said, “It’s okay miss. I think it is safe to put the bat down.” I didn’t even realize I still had it with me. As I dropped the bat to the ground, I felt the blood rushing back to my hand. I was gripping it so hard my hand was numb.

The police officer took Shannon aside and asked her some questions about the man and the gun.

“When did you hear the car crash?” he asked.

“About 11:30. I went outside to see what happened and saw the man getting out of the car with the gun.”

“What kind of gun?”

“I don’t know. It was a gun! I freaked out and ran the other direction!”

“I understand. Was it a hand gun, shot gun, rifle?”

“Hand gun.”

“About how big?”

Shannon made a gesture with her hands indicating that the gun was about 8 inches long.

“Ok, can you describe the man?”

“Uh, it was pretty dark and I only saw him for a second before I ran the other way.”

“About how tall do you think he was?”

“About six feet, I think. He had dark hair.”

“What race?”

“White or Hispanic, I think.”

I couldn’t hear the rest of the questioning because a crowd began to form around our front yard. Neighbors we previously never talked to introduced themselves and asked what was going on, like it wasn’t obvious with a strange car smashed against our front porch. I explained what happened and they commiserated with me.

I still had my cell phone with me and I realized I should call Bob and Phyllis, our landlords. Both Bob and Phyllis are over 85 years old, and 85 year olds didn’t really expect to be called at midnight on a Saturday. I explained who I was and what happened to the confused older couple. After about 10 minutes, they made their way over from around the block shaking their heads from side to side. Phyllis examined the house and Bob looked in the car. He walked directly over to another police officer and said, “Stupid drunk drivers! I guess the car is mine since he left it on my property.” I decided I didn’t want to participate in that conversation so I wandered back to the crowd of my neighbors.

About 20 minutes later, a tow truck showed up and began to load up the discarded car, full of empty Keystone Light cans. As we watched the truck hoist the car from our lawn, the cop we had originally talked to came over and told us they found the gun in an alley about a block away. Apparently, the man had two previous DUIs and was wanted for parole violation. No wonder he ran. The police officer said he probably just wanted to get rid of the gun, because it was just one more thing to get him in trouble. The cop informed us we could go back inside and they would have the mess cleaned up in about an hour.

“Would you please search the house first?” I asked. “My sister left the door open when she saw the gun.” Shannon elbowed me in the arm. “Well, you did!” I argued. The cop just smiled and walked toward the house. He searched our home, came back outside, and assured us we were safe.

As we walked inside I said, “Well, I guess the moral of this story is I can’t trust you in a crisis.”

She looked at me with disdain and said, “Oh yeah, you did a great job!”

“What? What did I do?”

“It is not what you did, but what you didn’t do. Did you notice you are missing anything?” She glanced down at my chest.

“Oh no! I’m so freakin’ embarrassed!” In the hubbub of the situation, I forgot to put on a bra when dressing. I was out there for almost an hour talking to cops, neighbors, and my landlords with my ample bosom flowing free. I would be screaming at me if I was watching this situation in movie form. “You idiot, go put a bra on, that’s gross.” But, you just don’t know until you are in the situation!

The Lampshade by Rhonda Dowty

The thick, heady aroma of coffee filled the air. It reminded me of Grandpa. For as long as I could remember, Grandpa savored his coffee while the first rays of morning sun shot streaks of vibrant orange across the endless eastern sky, hovering over our vast cattle ranch. He used to rock rhythmically in one of the old weather-beaten wooden rocking chairs, grumbling about the weather and the fence that always needed mending. When I was small, I would bravely climb into the other brown rocker on our tranquil farmhouse rambling porch. My legs, pumping with childish abandon, caused my hair to flip and swing with the motion of the chair. Grandpa would smile and say, “Whoa, Lilly girl.” I shook myself. Those days were gone. At times, the past resurfaces when a song or item in a store window triggers the memories. My name is Lily – like the flowers on my Grandfather’s grave, the ones Grandma grows in her garden. This particular day I noticed a shiny silver pitcher. Instantly, my mind drifted to the day I finally met my grandmother – really met her. I was sixteen and my heart trembled with the recent passing of my grandpa, my hero. The rocking chairs sat empty on the lonely planks surrounding three sides of our two-story structure. I looked down at the dainty doily I had been crocheting. My youthful, nimble fingers deftly hooked the loops into perfectly woven patterns. This was Grandma’s legacy. Grandma taught me to hook and pull the thinnest thread to create fragile, lacy rows. Daydreaming invariably brought Grandma’s stern tut-tut-tut. A single click of Grandma’s tongue quickly refocused my wandering imagination. Grandma was precise. She expected excellence. I remembered the hours I practiced making the woven threads even, and then the trepidation in my fluttering heart while Grandma’s inspection found me lacking, sending shivers down my spine. “Child…” she would begin. Grandpa would wink at me to soften the disappointment. In the kitchen, I heard the clinking of silver. During the long, lonely days following grandpa’s funeral, Grandma seemed driven to polish the silver. For days, she had secluded herself in the glorious farmhouse kitchen. Its spacious counters held canisters and mixers, knife racks, and decorative bowls of fresh pears from the tree by the fence off the main drive. Grandma sat at the kitchen table, her cloth smoothing the liquid onto the tarnished metal and deftly rubbing it to a sparkling finish. Grandma always took pride in a job well done. Sometimes she played the martyr, subtly remarking about her supreme sacrifice in solely accomplishing some unsavory task, but I could always tell that Grandma was secretly proud. Not able to stand the solitude and the present reality, which renewed its mournful truth every time I turned, I meandered to my secret refuge. I needed to think. The lofty attic always offered the solitude I craved when Grandma’s overbearing, critical presence became more than I could endure. The old wooden stairs creaked as I slowly climbed the narrow steps. The musty scent of ancient books and the smell of cedar escaping the hope chest nestled near the window wafted down to greet me. I inhaled the pungent aroma and allowed it to calm my senses and ease my troubled mind. I missed Grandpa. I missed him like the beating of my own heart, like the breath that filled my lungs, and the laughter that bubbled from my belly at all the inside jokes we had shared. A part of me was missing, and I longed to fill the void, but I did not know how. That following week would bring my seventeenth birthday. He would not be here to share it with me. Nothing prepared my tender, young mind for the intensity of the pain I experienced at the loss of my best friend and confidant. He had called me a “wild animal” as he chuckled in his deep, baritone voice. As a little girl, I ran like a gazelle and roamed the farm with imaginary friends in tow, or some not-so-imaginary creatures, such as the scruffy black and white goat, which magically transformed into a beautiful stallion, while the rusty red metal wagon became my carriage. The goat happily chased the carrot I dangled from a homemade fishing pole just beyond his reach. Never having known the comfort of a mother’s cradling arms or the encouragement of a father’s gentle caress, I grew up oblivious to the natural course of a traditional family; yet, Grandpa played the role of mother, father, sibling and friend to me. I whispered secrets in his ears and wove spectacular, grandiose tales, which I remember acting out under the shade of the gigantic oak in the backyard. Those stories frequently formulated in the tire-swing suspended from the oak tree’s sturdy branches or down by the creek bed, with my toes dangling in the water and my arms behind my head, gazing at the clouds. Those carefree days, punctuated by dirty bare feet, sneaking out of the back door, careful not to let Grandma catch me, seemed like a distant memory, now. I needed to plan. The future, without Grandpa’s rough hands to smooth my brow when I felt troubled, or spin me across the floor as I balanced my small feet on top of his large dusty boots, loomed ominously before me. If only Grandma and I shared some kind of connection, some kind of tenderness, or even friendship… I slid into a discarded wicker chair and fingered the feathers on the base of an old lampshade. What a charming, silly shade! Grandpa and I would have created some wonderful, crazy story about it. Sometime later, I padded down the stairs. Grandma continued to work in the kitchen. I tentatively poked my head through the door and timidly interrupted. “Grandma, do you want this lamp that I found in the attic?” Grandma looked up from her task with an annoyed frown, but slowly the creases around her drawn mouth began to soften. A tiny sigh escaped her lips. I watched, startled by the transformation that stripped the formidable, staunch rigidness from Grandma’s form, replacing it with a gentler, almost pretty countenance. Captivated, I slid into a straight back chair across from Grandma at the table. Never taking her eyes from the lampshade, Grandma quietly spoke. “The day I met your grandfather, I had gone to the county fair. My sister, your Aunt Theresa, and I wandered into town wearing our best Sunday dresses. Momma, your great-grandma, would have whipped our backsides if she caught us. Theresa was my twin, you remember, God rest her soul. We ate flavored shaved ice and thought that stolen afternoon must surely be Heaven. Your grandpa had come to town that day to purchase tack supplies. The leather of the harness worn by his plow horse, thinned by constant use, snapped that morning. Theresa and I noticed him as he first rode into town. I always thought Theresa was the most attractive, but your grandpa strolled right up to me that afternoon. We talked and talked while the minutes stretched into hours. Finally, Theresa pulled me away. We hurried back home, changed out of our dresses in the barn, and snuck back into the house. I don’t know how we ever fooled Momma.” I found Grandma’s wistful expression mesmerizing. Never having witnessed warmth in Grandma, I felt lost in discovering this stranger. I leaned forward, afraid to speak for fear of destroying the magic. After a brief hesitation, Grandma reached a tentative hand to stroke the soft feathers, which rimmed the bottom of the shade. “Your grandpa brought me a beautiful, wild hat with plumes of feathers the night he asked my father if he could court me. I knew I had met the man I was going to marry.” I blinked with the wonder of this new discovery. Grandma had been a real girl once! Softly she spoke into the air, as if she had forgotten that I sat enraptured across from her. “We dreamed impossible dreams that summer. He was going to take me to the city, show me the sights and sounds of an exciting world we never imagined existed. He promised I would wear that hat and we would dine in fancy restaurants. He claimed he would proudly show off his ‘lovely lady.’ I could not wait for that trip. Theresa and I spent many nights whispering to the stars about what I would wear, the pretend jewels we anticipated might hang about my neck and drip from my fingers. We fantasized about the intriguing people I would encounter. An exciting life away from the drudgery of the farm awaited me.” Again, a lull settled in the room. I held my breath, afraid Grandma‘s window to the past and into this new, foreign, sentimental side would close. Grandma’s faint smile faded. This time her voice hardened. “We never took that trip. A terrible storm frightened the livestock. The panicked horses shattered the stable door. Thrashing wildly about, they became tangled in the barbed wire used to repair the fence. The horses kicked and trampled Father as he fought to free them in the midst of the raging weather. After that, Father lay for months in the upstairs bedroom. Mother cared for him night and day, but he never recovered. Your grandpa and I quietly married, and he immediately took responsibility. He saved the farm, providing for Theresa and my mother, as well. He never complained.” She paused, looking longingly at the lamp. “I finally took that old hat apart and added the feathers to the lampshade. I am a practical woman,” she firmly stated as she stood up. “I knew I would never wear that hat. Yes, you may have it.” Grandma’s crisp steps resounded in the hall as she left my presence and the memories of her youth. I remained at the kitchen table for a long, long time, my head resting on my arm as I silently wept. I grew up that day. I took ownership of my future and vowed to find happiness, because I realized a tragic truth in that beautiful old farmhouse. My grandfather died and was buried in the cemetery down the road, but my grandmother died on the inside many years ago. I grieved for both of them.

Alaskan Adventure Patrice Hein

We left Anchorage on New Year's Day and headed north. Five hours later we pulled into Tok and the guy at the gas station/restaurant/general store/motel said it was 64 degrees below zero. He wasn't sure what the wind chill was. We drove on into the mid-afternoon darkness - the sun had barely come up over the horizon at noon that day. Now it was my turn to drive the Dodge pickup loaded with my boyfriend's belongings. He was moving to Kansas to finish school at K-State. When he was in high school his father accepted a job in Anchorage, so the family moved there, but their roots were in Kansas. The wind roared down from the Arctic Circle as I headed the truck south - south through the Yukon Territory toward Alberta and then across the border into the U.S. at Sweetgrass, Montana. We were going to attempt it non-stop, with one driving while the other slept. He'd done it before and it had only taken six days. I could tell this was going to be an adventure. It had all the right elements - a long journey, two romantically involved people, and dangerous obstacles in their way, at that point I wasn't sure what those obstacles would be. That was probably a good thing. The reflection of the headlights off the fine snow sifting down, and off the snow-packed road, was mesmerizing. After two to three hours of driving, I wasn't sure where the road ended and the rest of this immense white world began. At some point I noticed some of the clumps of snow by the road seemed to be moving. Was I hallucinating? No, they were definitely moving and every now and then I felt a "bump" as if the truck tires hit something. I kept driving and wondering what was going on. I slowed to almost a stop and looked intently at the swirling whiteness sparkling in the headlights. The clumps, I discovered, were snowshoe hares and I'd been hitting dozens of them as they scampered across the road. It was five more hours until we got to Whitehorse and the only other vehicle I had seen since we left Tok passed us more than an hour ago. My friend was sound asleep and needed to stay asleep so he could take over driving again in a few hours. I put the truck in gear and drove on, imagining the trail of dark red I was leaving behind in this beautiful white diamond world. The snowfall had been heavy and snowplows were working non-stop to keep the highway open near Whitehorse. I soon learned that as a snowplow approached, it was best to just pull over to the right as far as possible and stop until the cloud of white powder had thinned enough to see where I was driving. The bitter cold caused the truck to have problems - the engine was fine, but the wheel bearings were freezing up. We reached a point, only 50 miles north of Whitehorse, where the truck couldn't go any further. We waited by the side of the road for three hours. Where were those snowplows when you needed them? All we could do was sit in the truck, each wrapped in a down sleeping bag, and stare down the road, waiting for someone to come along. Eventually, a semi, approaching from the south, slowed to a stop when it came up to us. The trucker radioed for a wrecker in Whitehorse. Two hours later, riding in the cab with the tow truck driver, we finally pulled into our destination for the night - or was it day? It was so hard to tell. At the service station, the mechanic said he'd order a part; it would be flown in on Tuesday, this was Sunday. I noticed a blue VW bus in one of the service station bays. As I walked past it, I noticed the driver's side of the vehicle had been sheared off. "What happened?" I asked the mechanic. "Oh, a guy was driving his car and his wife was following him in the VW - they were taking it to Calgary for their kid to use. A snowplow came by and missed him, but…" He didn't have to finish his sentence, but I had to ask… "And she's dead?" He said, "Yup, she's in number 12 at the motel. They use that as the morgue in the winter - they just don't turn the heat on."